


Italian Journey

by traumschwinge



Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-22 03:14:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3712732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/traumschwinge/pseuds/traumschwinge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the second decade of the 19th century. Erik, a well established writer, is on a journey south to Italy, when he stops at an Inn for the night. But death visited the inn in the morning before. It brings some memories back Erik isn't too willing to dwell on. It's not that he's regretting what he's done, but they're painful to revisit, as they'd never had enough time.</p><p>ghost!Charles/old man!Erik</p>
            </blockquote>





	Italian Journey

**Author's Note:**

> Written for an anon prompt over on tumblr, the original prompt ficlet is bolded in the text, I only changed the tense.
> 
> Also, this is a test on how loud I can hint on the historical inspiration behind it before too many notice (those who do probably feel like I'm too unsubtle about it).

Erik got off the stagecoach after a long day on the road. His whole body ached from the ride, but the worst of it was that he would have to spend some more days on various other coaches. At least, he reasoned, he would be able to spend a night at an inn for once. Any long travels across the continent were always such a hassle, sometimes he wondered why he even bothered with them. But he had wanted to get out, away from home. Now that he'd time and was free of his late employer, he wanted to visit Italy again, one last time before he was too old to travel.

It wasn't the real reason, but it had been what he'd told anyone who'd asked him. Those that pressed him some more, like that wretched brat Alexander and his friends, he had kindly informed that he would shoot someone if he had to attend one more literary salon, probably a romanticist, most likely the one asking the stupidest questions or the one that looked most stoned. That had stopped the discussion, at least in front of Erik and he was happy enough with it.

The inn was unusually quiet when he entered. There had been four more people along with him on the coach, but aside from them, there was no one in the public room. One of his fellow travelers, a young man who sounded like he was at least more local than Erik himself, called out for the publican. There were noises from the backroom, then, a hushed conversation, before a man stepped out, coming over to greet them.

“I forgot about the coach,” the publican murmured, his voice quiet and incredibly tired. “Sorry, your rooms will be ready in a bit, why don't you sit down and have something to drink and some food before?” He lurched over to the bar. “Beer for all of you?”

Erik's fellow travelers agreed, but he shook his head. “A jug of wine for me, if possible, Mister,” he asked. The publican nodded and named his prices. His guests paid without complaint. As soon as everyone was settled down with food and drink, the publican hurried off to prepare the rooms.

Though, it wasn't long, before he came back. He looked between the young man and Erik, both of which were traveling alone. The other three coach passengers were a small group of friends and would most likely share a room. After a moment, the publican decided to come talk to Erik.

“Excuse me, sir, but...” the publican started.

“Have you run out of rooms?” Erik interrupted him. He was tired and irritable, by no means up for discussions.

“Something like that,” the publican sighed. “But not exactly, there's enough room for everyone. It's just...”

“Just spit it out, man,” Erik sighed.

“My son died this morning and one of the guestrooms is next to the room we're holding the vigil,” the publican explained, voice and eyes full of sorrow.

“I don't mind,” Erik replied, guessing what the man was getting at. “As long as there's a wall between me and the body and a bed in my room, I'm happy.”

The publican looked relieved. “Thank you, sir. Your room is ready for you when you're done eating. It's just down the hall, second door from the end of the hallway.” Erik nodded, as the man hurried off. It was sad, Erik thought. The poor people of this inn had just lost a son and now they had still to run their inn to earn their livelihood. Nobody gave them the time to grief. For a second, Erik felt a pang of guilt.

When he was done with dinner, he stayed seated a little longer, pulling out his diary to note down some thoughts on the day, what he had seen from the coach's windows and a short sentence about the publican and his family. He hadn't kept a diary in years, too busy writing and more busy still rewriting what he had written into perfection. But now, when he was traveling the roads of his youth again at a much older age, it felt appropriate to write down his memories again. If he ever returned home, his reasoning had been, he could compare notes and have a laugh.

In the end, Erik was the last of the travelers to retreat, taking his time to finish the mediocre wine that had come with his food. It wasn't until the last glass that he noticed that he was getting drunk and it was possibly time to head to bed. He took his luggage and walked through the door to the back of the inn and down the hallway. The last door was left a crack open and there was light behind it, adding some more twilight to the gloom. Erik paid it no attention at first and simply entered his room.

He lit the candle on the bedside table and unpacked what he'd need for the night. Which admittedly wasn't much to begin with. Just a travel shaving kit and a book he meant to read weeks ago, but whenever he picked it up, he wanted to shove the words back down the author's throat. Why he had brought it with him, he had no idea.

Soon enough, his thoughts started to wander. He wasn't even fully undressed yet, but the thought of a dead body in the room next to his didn't let him find any peace of mind. It wasn't that he was feeling unwell with death this close. He had seen his fair share of it before in his life. But his thoughts strayed back to the one night he'd held vigil, almost twenty years ago. He'd just barely reached his forties then, but still had to bury his best friend, after a long sickness and therefore it hadn't been a surprise, but it'd still been hard on him.

Only for a short while, before tuberculosis had claimed him, Charles had been Erik's lover, after decades of avoiding their mutual feelings at all costs. For some short weeks, Erik had felt like there was a god after all, and soon after, in long months, he had learned that this god might just be there to see him suffer. Not for the first time, and not for the last, Erik wished his friend could still be with him.

Before he was entirely sure what he was doing, he was up and out of the room again, dressed in his pants and shirt, but no waistcoat or jacket, standing in the hallway. There was still light inside the room and Erik hadn't heard any footsteps. He wondered if the couple was doing the vigil all by themselves and if they didn't at least want to eat something. He knocked, before he could think better of it.

A few moments later, the door was pushed open further and the publican's head appeared. “Do you need something?” he asked, clearly more tired than he'd like to admit.

“I... came over to ask if you'd want to get some rest, a break maybe,” Erik said. “I could watch your son for a few moments, or even an hour.”

The publican eyed him suspiciously, but didn't close the door, yet. Erik could tell he was tempted, but unwilling.

“I've held vigil before,” Erik added, in the hope that it would help.

Slowly, the publican nodded. “We'll be back in a bit then.” He hesitated, then opened the door for Erik. “Thank you.”

Erik strode across the small room to the chair next to the bed. A woman, the publican's wife most likely, got up when he approached, looking between Erik and her husband, before she left without a word.

Erik was alone with the dead body.

He wondered what had made him come over and offer his help. Maybe the memory of the feeling of complete loneliness and isolation the night he'd held vigil over Charles' body. Maybe because he had wished so bad for some friend or stranger or anyone to come in that night and help him shoulder the pain. Or maybe it was just because he was an old drunk and had nothing better to do than to be occasionally very nice to people when he otherwise preferred to be nasty just to keep them away from him.

While he waited for the night to pass or the publican and his wife's return, Erik looked down at the dead boy. In this light, to Erik, as drunk as he was, the boy's serene, pale face, looked achingly close to what he remembered Charles had looked like when they'd first met. Erik couldn't help but stare.

They had been so young and run into each other by chance. Erik had just been outgrowing his wilder years and Charles had been visiting the Duchy Erik was working for at the time. They'd read each other's works before, had even exchanged polite letters, but never met before. It had been on one of the parties his employer back then had liked. Charles had been introduced to Erik by people that insisted the two had to met and they had ended up talking in some corner of the castle, party and other guests forgotten. Knowing what he did today, Erik almost wanted to mourn the opportunity lost there.

Charles had meant to much to him, even as a friend. He didn't want to trade this friendship they'd had for anything, not even love. It just wouldn't be the same. They had been close enough for Erik to confess to Charles in one night over a couple of glasses of wine that he hadn't always been called Erik, that he'd been born as Maximilian Eisenhardt, but that he'd always disliked the sound of it. So, when he had started to publish his plays and other works, he'd changed the name. He had moved a lot, too, so it wasn't before long that there wasn't anyone left who even remembered that he hadn't always been Erik.

In turn, Charles had told him about his youth, how strict and almost militaristic the household he'd grown up in had been, how he hadn't even known a girl or a woman until he left home. They had joked then that it was because of that that Charles was so bad writing female characters, but that had changed quickly, the more Charles frequented parties and salons and other public events and the more he talked to women. One jealous night, Erik had accused him of having found himself a wife without telling Erik, but Charles had somehow talked him out of that suspicion. Erik now was sure they'd already been in love then.

Erik listened for footsteps, before he leaned closer over the boy's face. Even up close, he still looked like a young Charles. “It's so sad you died this young.” Erik had meant to kiss the boy's forehead but somehow his lips had found the boy's. He pulled back quickly, hoping nobody would notice, but at the same time wishing it had been Charles' lips he had kissed there.

The rest of the time he held vigil, nothing happened. The publican eventually returned, sending Erik off to his room to at least get some sleep. It was just before midnight then.

Erik went over to his room and changed out of his clothes. Especially at inns or in any sort of guestrooms, he preferred to sleep in the nude, afraid of getting bedbugs into his clothes should there be any. He had just taken off his shirt and started with his trousers, when there was a knock on the door.

Grumbling about the late hour of night—he'd just heard the church chime midnight—he went to open the door. And immediately stumbled back when he saw the person standing outside. It was the boy, or his ghost, studying his face as if he'd been invited over and now just waited to be sure Erik hadn't changed his mind.

“ **This can’t be!” Erik stepped back further into his room, hand raised in a defensive motion. The boy in the doorframe just stared at him, skin white as porcelain, his eyes wide open and opaque.“Why, Max, why can’t this be?”**

**It had been a joke, a drunken, crude folly that was only half motivated by Erik’s deep-seated loneliness. Just a meaningless kiss to the dead lips of the inn-keeper’s son laid out in the room next to his.**

**The boy came closer and reached out to touch Erik’s jaw. The touch was soft but the moving fingers were cold like the air around them. “You willed this, Max. It can be because you wanted it to be. It’s exactly like you wanted it to be.”**

“Charles,” Erik sighed, leaning his face into the ghost's touch. Tears feel through silvery fingers. “Are you...? Is this really you?”

“For the rest of the night,” the ghost replied. “I can stay until sunrise, thanks to you, Max. Please, let me stay with you.”

There was only one answer to this plea and Erik reached out for the ghost's face to make sure he would understand the invitation sealed with a kiss.

~*~

Erik woke long after dawn the next morning. For a brief moment, before he opened his eyes, he could still feel Charles' presence near him. He kept his eyes closed for a little while longer, savoring the feeling, so he could face the harsh truth.

He was alone in his room, not a trace left of his nightly visitor. His heart ached as he readied himself for another day on the road, on a journey he'd once promised Charles to do together, so Charles could see the places for himself that Erik had loved so much he'd started to write prose and poetry.

On his own now, the purpose had become to remember the one he'd lost on every step of the way.


End file.
